Smoke and Mirrors
by Tea55
Summary: Dean Smith likes his life. Even when he meets a rather unusual stranger. Set in SPN 4x17, oneshot.


**Disclaimer:** Not mine, Kripke's.

**Summary**: Dean Smith likes his life. Even when he meets a rather unusual stranger.

**Rating:** K

**SMOKE AND MIRRORS**

Dean Smith was used to people checking him out.

Women and men alike. In most cases he didn't mind it. Sometimes, he had even used his good looks to get the job done, but it was just innocent flirting, nothing more.

This guy, though…

For the past fifteen minutes, since Dean walked inside the restaurant, he hasn't taken his eyes off of him.

At first, Dean ignores him, concentrating on making his order and running the figures of today's closed deals in his head. It wasn't one of his most successful days, but it could have been worse. And if things continue going the way financial analysts are predicting, Dean is sure it will become worse. Recession really hasn't been doing him any favors on his new job, but Mr. Adler seems satisfied with Dean's work, so there was no need to panic beforehand.

Lost in figures, Dean forgets all about the guy, but then his gaze accidentally slips towards the guy's table, his heart skipping a beat when he realizes that the guy is still checking him out, the stranger's eyes set unblinkingly on Dean's face.

It makes Dean uncomfortable, almost afraid, and that slight twitch of fear pisses him off. He had come to eat his dinner in peace and to relax from a really long and stressful day at work, not pose as an ogling object for some lonely tax accountant.

Dean makes a point of looking the guy directly in the eyes – clear blue ones, not the color he's seen often – expecting a reaction of some kind, but he gets none. The guy doesn't look away in shame nor does he smile, he simply continues staring at Dean with those unreadable eyes.

For a split second Dean has the strangest sense of déjà vu, but then the waiter arrives with his meal and the illusion shatters.

All throughout his dinner, Dean makes a concentrated effort of not looking at the guy, but that doesn't stop the guy from staring at him. Dean can actually feel his eyes on himself, like a ghost touch of fingers on the nape of his neck.

Dean finishes his meal in record time, and it bothers him, the fact that his hasty exit from the restaurant is, in fact, escape. He half expects the guy to follow him, his mind already devising ways of dealing with this potential problem, but, in the end, all his worry and planning are for nothing.

The guy doesn't follow him out.

******

"I'm flattered, really, but I'm not interested," Dean says, keeping his tone civil. He's not afraid for his safety, they are in a public place, but he doesn't want to cause a scene. He likes this place and would very much like to keep coming here. Which is the reason why when he enters the restaurant and sees the guy from yesterday – sitting at the same table, dressed in the same clothes – he decides to do both himself and that guy a favor by making it clear that he's wasting his time.

The guy frowns slightly, as if contemplating Dean's words. "Interested?" He repeats slowly, looking genuinely confused, and Dean notes, not without some measure of amusement, that his voice – deep and hoarse – isn't what he's expected to hear from this guy, but then a ghost of a smile flickers across the guy's lips as realization dawns on his face. "You refer to physical attraction," he says calmly, and now it's Dean's turn to frown. "I am also, as you say, not interested."

Dean doesn't buy it, no matter how sincere the guy looks. "Then what's it with the stalking routine?"

The guy frowns again. Also, he takes another pause before answering, and Dean starts to think that his not so secret admirer might be a little slow on the uptake.

"I am not stalking you. That would imply following you around."

The guy has a certain point there, Dean has to admit it, but he has no intention of admitting it out loud. It would make him look like a paranoid fool.

"This is the second time in a row that you're here, staring at me," Dean points out, his tone more than a little smug, but the guy has another one almost-smile moment.

"I am not the only person here for the second time," he says simply, looking Dean directly in the eyes. From up this close his eyes seem even more shockingly blue, and the intensity of their gaze all the more unnerving. "Yourself included."

"But I'm here because I happen to like the food here, not to stare at a stranger."

"Be that as it may, it still doesn't mean that I am interested," the guy says carefully, like he's weighing his words. "Or that I'm stalking you."

"I notice you haven't denied the staring," Dean says, now really feeling like an idiot. Has he been wrong about this guy? Maybe he's only weird, or socially inept. Or maybe the guy's just come out of some Catholic monastery, who knows.

"That would be a lie. I have been looking at you. You," the guy says slowly and a strange expression passes across his face, but too quick for Dean to give it a proper label. "You remind me of someone."

Dean snorts, not interested, my ass. "Oh come on," he says, disbelief clear in his voice. The guy has the strangest reaction to his words, though. His eyes widen, and for a brief moment, Dean is sure he sees hope in them. But it disappears the moment Dean speaks again. "You say you're not interested and you're using that lame pick-up line? Look pal, I'm going to do you a favor and tell you that this," Dean waves with his hand, indicating the space between them, "silent staring routine isn't working. If you want to get to know someone, you should try smiling a little or ask them to join you for dinner. That's a normal thing to do. What you've been doing tends to make people nervous."

The guy does another one of his pauses, and Dean begins to wonder is the food here really worth dealing with this weirdo. But then a smile stretches the guy's lips and Dean has another out of the blue, completely inappropriate reaction. He smiles back.

"Would you like to have dinner with me?" The guy asks.

"I thought you weren't interested," Dean says, still smiling.

"I'm not," the guy says softly and Dean believes him. But he also doesn't believe him, not that he's sure how to explain that paradoxical reaction. "Not in the sense you have in mind."

"And what sense would that be?" Dean asks, aware how he's actually flirting with the guy now, following an impulse that is a strange cross of bruised ego and curiosity. The kind that kills cats.

"The sense of considering you a desirable sexual partner," the guy says, completely serious, and Dean almost bursts into laughter at the precise, almost technical description he had used.

"So you don't want to have sex with me?" Dean asks, aware that the hole he's been digging himself in becomes deeper by the second. And with every new word that comes out of his mouth.

"No," the guy says, growing deadly serious, and something in his expression wipes away the smile from Dean's lips, making his throat go dry. "Not with you."

After that, Dean, of course, declines the guy's invitation. He doesn't seem offended or hurt by Dean's rejection, he simply tilts his head, saying 'as you wish", following Dean with his eyes as he walks back to his table.

The guy continues watching him this time as well; Dean feels his eyes, even though he avoids looking at him.

Like the last time, when Dean exits the restaurant, the guy doesn't follow. This time, though, it is what he expects.

******

The next time Dean sees the guy – same table, same clothes, same expression, again – he decides to say 'screw it'. He doesn't bother with searching for a table, he strolls over to the guy's table, taking the seat opposite to him.

"You don't seem surprised by this," Dean says instead of a greeting, frowning slightly. "Like you were expecting me to do this."

"I wouldn't say expected," the guy says lightly, and Dean is aware that his eyes are lingering a little too long on the guy's lips, curved into a soft smile.

"Then what would you say?"

"Hoped," he says, whispers really. "I had hoped you would do this."

"Why? Because this is what that guy I remind you of would have done?" Dean asks, meaning his words to be a joke, but the startled look that crosses the guy's features tells him that he's hit the bull's-eye even though he hadn't even been aiming.

"Yes, this is precisely what he would have done," the guy says wistfully. "Dean would have looked upon this as a challenge."

"What did you say?" Dean asks, his heart racing. "How did you call him?"

"Dean," the guy says firmly, his eyes set unblinkingly on Dean's. "His name was… is Dean."

"That's my name," Dean forces out past the lump in his throat, the sound of his heartbeat drowning out all other sounds. "Dean, Dean Smith."

"But you are not the only Dean," the guy says, although, Dean is pretty sure what he means is you are not _my _Dean.

"So… your Dean. What is he to you?" Dean asks, not sure how to interpret the slight jerk of the guy's head at the word your. Not sure what is wrong with him to be asking in the first place. "Friend, lover, ex-boyfriend, potential love interest?"

"Dean, he…" the guy starts, but abruptly stops himself, but Dean doesn't really expect an answer. More a glare of the 'that's none of your business' variety, so he's surprised when the guy continues. "I would like it if I could say that we have been friends, but that would be a lie. I think the closest to the truth is to call Dean my business associate."

"Riiight," Dean drawls ironically, and the slight narrowing of the guy's eyes is the first crack in the almost perfect composure the guy has been displaying so far. "So you're ogling strangers in restaurants only because they remind you of your business associate?"

"I haven't been ogling you, as you call it, but yes," the guy says, his face drawing into a grimace that is half frustration and half hurt. "When I look at you, I see him and it makes it easier."

"Makes what easier?" Dean asks, partly freaked out by this guy's honesty, partly curious.

"Dean is… gone for the time being. I do not know when he will return."

"You mean you miss him?" Dean asks, aware that he's interested in the answer a lot more than it's normal. A lot more than he should be.

"Yes, I suppose that is the truth," the guy says, as if only now he'd become aware of this. "I do miss him."

The rest of the evening they spend in silence, and when he leaves – first, like the first two nights – the guy doesn't follow him. This time, though, Dean almost regrets that fact. Also, he realizes that he still doesn't know his name.

******

"What's your name?" Dean asks. It's their fourth meeting, and like the last time, Dean is again sitting across from the guy. And he's really tired of thinking about him as 'the guy'. "I need a name to call you, and strange, stalker guy is just too long."

The guy hesitates for a moment. "Castiel, my name is Castiel."

"Castiel," Dean says, tasting the name, liking the way it rolls off his tongue. Throwing a glance at Castiel's face, he decides it fits him. He doesn't say it, though. "You even have a weird name, but I suppose it's not bad as Theodore or Maynard."

"It is the name my father gave me," Castiel says solemnly, like it means something. Something more than the obvious.

"Well, he didn't do you any favor when he gave you your name, Cas," Dean says, smirking. "Now, my…"

"What did you call me?" Castiel asks in a low voice.

Dean blinks, alarmed by the strange glint in the blue eyes doing what they do best – staring at him. "What did I call you?"

"You called me Cas," Castiel says slowly, and there's something in his voice – yearning? sorrow? maybe regret – when he repeats the nickname Dean wasn't even aware he used.

"I did? Sorry about that… I sometimes give people nicknames."

"I don't mind it," Castiel says, shrugging his shoulders. It is a perfectly normal gesture Dean has seen being made by hundred different people, but on Castiel it looks strange, almost foreign, giving him an aura of vulnerability. "I like it… Dean used to call me by that name.

"Now, that is weird," Dean says. "It's just too many coincidences here."

"Do you still think of me as a stalker? Do you honestly believe you are in danger from me?"

"I'd be a fool then, if I believed it, right?" Dean says, flashing his most charming grin, hoping it would be enough to change the subject. "Because, here I am, talking to you."

"That doesn't give me the answer, only states the obvious," Castiel points out, and Dean frowns, his grin fading.

"I'm not afraid of you, Castiel, but I think you're hiding something."

"Aren't we all?" Castiel sighs, suddenly looking weary.

Dean smiles feebly, taking that as purely rhetorical question and focusing on his meal, noting absently how all their evenings together have ended in silence, but not once has it been uncomfortable silence.

This time when he leaves, again without saying goodbye to Castiel, without a promise of another meeting, Dean pauses by the exit, an almost overwhelming desire to turn washing over him, but he ignores it. Castiel is a distraction, there's no need to make him into a complication.

******

"What do you do for a living?" Dean asks Castiel, surprised how long it took him to ask that question in the first place. After all, his job was alpha and omega of his life.

"I work for my father," Castiel says after a moment of consideration.

"Huh, you don't look like a pampered prince," Dean says thoughtfully, giving Castiel a once over. And he really doesn't. His clothes clearly aren't designer clothes, but his father's business doesn't have to be some large corporation like the one Dean is working for. It could be a small family business. "So what do you do? Wait, don't tell me," Dean pauses, smiling, "you're doing the taxes."

Castiel frowns, but his frown soon turns into his patented half smile. "No, I don't, but you are not the first one to make that association," he says softly, and Dean feels strangely annoyed because he's sure that his namesake had been the one who has made that association first. Swallowing a snort, Dean forces himself to pay attention to Castiel and not think about how deep in the land of denial Castiel is if he believes that Dean is only a business associate to him. People don't think about their business associates all the time, and even if they do, they don't have the love struck look Castiel gets every time that Dean guy is mentioned or he remembers him.

"Then if you're not a tax accountant, what do you do?"

"I," Castiel starts, and the fact that he again looks like it takes him an effort to translate into words what should have been an easy answer doesn't surprise Dean anymore. It's just one of Castiel's many quirks. "You could say I work in security."

Dean almost chokes on his breath. "Security? _You?"_ Dean asks, disbelieving, his gaze sweeping over Castiel. Why would a father employ his own son as a security guard? Especially if said son looked like Castiel – slim, surrounded by an aura of fragility and vulnerability. "You're kidding, right?"

"No, why would I be kidding?" Castiel asks, looking genuinely confused.

"But you're…" Dean starts, but cuts himself off. He doesn't know Castiel, not really. He doesn't know what he can or cannot do. Even if he looks like he'd faint at the sight of a gun. "Never mind. So," Dean says lightly, "do you like your job?"

It was supposed to be a simple question, nothing complicated, just another question people ask all the time, but Castiel's reaction is anything but simple or what's expected. The look of guilt flashes across his features only to be replaced by a pained grimace. "I don't know," he whispers, his voice cracking on the edges, misery finding its way into Castiel's eyes. "Not anymore. I used to know, but now I have too many questions and no answers."

"Why don't you talk with your father?" Dean suggests, not really sure where to look. Somehow, he'd managed to stumble upon an obviously painful subject, but how was he supposed to know? And what was he supposed to do now? He was bad at this, he could charm and bullshit his way into making a deal, but dealing with a stranger's emotional crisis was out of his league. "Tell him how you feel."

"I am afraid."

Dean frowns. "Afraid? Of what? That your father won't listen or like what you have to say?"

"No," Castiel says, and Dean has to lean closer to understand what Castiel is saying, but that only brings him closer to Castiel's face and if he looked miserable before, up this close, the expression on his face makes Dean fidget in his seat. "I am afraid he won't say anything at all."

"You could always quit your job," Dean says, regretting his words the moment they leave his mouth.

"It is more complicated than that," Castiel says. The misery from his eyes is gone, but the sorrow that takes its place isn't really an improvement in Dean's opinion. "My job is me… who I am."

"Well, you're not the only one," Dean says, trying to break the sudden tension and heavy atmosphere in the air, but he's aware how empty his words are, how weak his smile is. But Castiel shouldn't know it; he doesn't know him well enough to be able to read him. "There are two workaholics at this table. My job is my life too."

Dean follows their unspoken routine of silent goodbye after he finishes his meal this time as well, but Castiel's last words linger long after he's out of the restaurant and far from Castiel's intense stare.

"_And you are sure it is the right job?"_

******

Dean feels disappointed.

He also knows that he has no right to feel this way, and he doesn't understand where does this feeling come from, but it is there, has been from the moment he'd stepped inside the restaurant and his eyes had fallen on their – Castiel's and his – table, finding it empty.

Dean is sure Castiel won't show up, but he still sits at their table, this time ordering the meal Castiel always orders, but, Dean frowns at this realization, never finishes. Actually, Dean hasn't seen Castiel take more than two bites of his Chicken Salad, but it was simply another item on the list of things that were off with Castiel, making him seem out of place there, which, Dean supposes, should have made him avoid Castiel, not look forward to their evenings together.

Castiel owed him nothing. Just like he didn't owe Castiel anything. They never made promises or arrangements. Even more, if asked, Dean wouldn't be able to find an appropriate term which could apply to Castiel and him.

What were they? They weren't friends, and Dean felt no real attraction toward Castiel, although there was something – a spark of heat, and a question that popped every now again uninvited, how would it feel to touch Castiel, to have him touch back – but Castiel claimed disinterest, and behaved accordingly. They weren't even accidental companions brought together by circumstances.

But whatever they were, Dean was starting to realize that he has become at ease with Castiel, even with his strange mannerisms, relishing in his ability to just be there, silent, allowing Dean to do the same.

It was important, somehow, but Dean wasn't ready to explore it further. But he did know that he should either end this strange relationship with Castiel or give it a name. The problem was that he didn't like either of those two options.

******

"I'm sorry I didn't come yesterday," Castiel says evenly, looking sincere. This doesn't come as a surprise to Dean, who has a rather idiotic notion that Castiel isn't a very familiar with the concept of lying. "I was otherwise engaged."

"You owe me no apology Castiel," Dean says, even though there's a part of him that is pleased with Castiel's words. "Or an explanation. We've made no promises."

"I am aware of that," Castiel says, his voice firm. "But that doesn't mean my apology is any less true."

"So," Dean says, his voice sounding a lot more disinterested than Dean feels. "Where were you yesterday?"

"There were things I needed to take care of," Castiel says, and Dean realizes that today Castiel obviously isn't in a sharing mood. But he still finds himself asking.

"Business or personal?"

"For me there is no distinction between the two," Castiel says, sounding weary.

"Oh yeah, I forgot," Dean says, absentmindedly playing with his water glass. "Your job is who you are. Even though you hate it."

Castiel frowns. "I never said I hate what I do," he says carefully, his eyes, for some reason, flicking between Dean's face and the table where Dean continues pushing the glass back and forth. "Merely that the circumstances have changed."

"Why? Because of Dean?" Dean asks, pushing the glass with more force than he intended, but before it could fall off the edge of the table, Castiel's hand shots out, preventing its fall.

"Yes," Castiel says without having that strange, long pause he usually takes when he needs to answer Dean's question. For some reason that makes him annoyed. Castiel's eyes are resting on Dean's as he moves the glass back, his fingers brushing against Dean's as he does so.

Something happens then, like someone had flicked a switch inside Dean's head. Dean isn't sure is it because of that strange annoyance that he feels every time that Dean guy is mentioned and Castiel reacts like he's some saint or something along those lines, or because an almost electric sensation had shot through Dean's body at that light touch of Castiel's fingers, but Dean finds himself opening his mouth, and the words he hasn't planned saying, spill forth.

"Would you like to come over to my place?"

******

When he closes the door of his apartment, Dean takes a deep, calming breath, wondering what the hell possessed him to invite Castiel over. But the same lunacy he's apparently suffering from is obviously contagious because Castiel had said yes. Actually, he didn't say anything then, in the restaurant. Simply nodded, but now Dean feels suddenly unsure if Castiel is even aware of what Dean's invitation implies.

When he turns around, Castiel is standing still in the middle of his apartment, staring at him like he awaits further instructions.

"I'd offer you a drink, but I don't have anything alcoholic," Dean says, aware how ridiculous he must look, standing by the door, like he's preparing to flee his own apartment.

"I don't drink," Castiel says, and Dean really wishes that he could read the look in Castiel's eyes, or that Castiel did something. Something that would tell Dean that Castiel understands why Dean had invited him over in the first place. Which is actually what Dean would like to know as well.

Other than a momentary insanity on his part, that is. Because when it came down to it, he'd basically invited a stranger over for a one night stand – he thinks – because he'd gotten the bright idea to find out why is gay sex so popular these days.

Shaking his head, Dean leans his weight on the door behind him. "This is ridiculous," he mutters, more thinking out loud than anything else. He just can't decide what is more ridiculous about this situation – that he'd invited Castiel over or that he doesn't know what to do now.

"I could leave if my presence is making you uncomfortable," Castiel offers, his voice drawing Dean out of his panicked thoughts.

Dean feels relief washing over him, as Castiel offers him a way out of the mess he'd made, and he already has his mouth open, ready to accept Castiel's offer, when his gaze falls on Castiel – still standing in the same place as before, watching Dean intently, and Dean suddenly wants – needs – to see another expression in those usually calm eyes.

"No, Cas, that's not what I want," Dean says, moving away from the door, all his doubts vanishing under the sudden rush of lust that makes Dean's heart race wildly in his chest.

Dean doesn't miss the slight crease that appears on Castiel's forehead at his use of the nickname, but he doesn't stop to think what it might mean. He doesn't really want to think about that other Dean or Castiel's fascination with him, or anything at all, as the case might be. He just wants to act on this need that he knows is insane, reckless and potentially dangerous behavior, but he's not willing to change his mind. Not now.

"Do you remember our second meeting?" Dean asks, now standing a step away from Castiel. Standing close enough to touch.

"Yes," Castiel says blankly, his frown deepening.

"Then you remember I said I wasn't interested," Dean drawls, his fingers itching to run through Castiel's tousled hair, but he forces himself to be patient. "Well, what would you say if I said I changed my mind?" Dean asks, finally caving in before the need to touch, allowing his fingers to play with Castiel's tie. "What if I am interested?"

For one long moment nothing happens, Castiel doesn't react in any way, but then something flashes in his eyes – not quite desire, but close enough – and he reaches out with his hand toward Dean's face, but before it can reach its destination, Castiel lets it fall dejectedly by his side, that small spark dying in his eyes.

"Then I would have to take my leave," Castiel says, taking a step back. Away from Dean.

Dean blinks and it takes him a moment to fully process what has happened. To understand that he'd been rejected.

"It's because of _him_, right?" Dean asks before he could stop himself, hating the bitter undertone of his voice, but Castiel's rejection stings. It's not something Dean is used to. His looks and charm have been a fairly foolproof combination up until now. "Because of Dean?"

"Yes," Castiel says solemnly, but the look in his eyes is sad. "It is because of him, but not only because of him. There are other reasons why this cannot happen."

"But it's mostly because of him?" Dean insists, and he wants to stop this outburst of petty, completely unfounded jealousy and resentment, but his mouth refuses to listen to his mind, making this already humiliating situation into something truly pathetic.

"Yes," Castiel whispers, but there is steel beneath the softness of his voice. That and sorrow. "Dean would never forgive me if I had accepted your offer."

"I think you should leave now," Dean says, his voice hollow, and for some reason, Castiel now looks as bad as Dean feels. Dean closes his eyes, so he doesn't have to look at him.

He doesn't know how long he has been standing with his eyes closed shut, but when he opens them, he is alone in his apartment, Castiel is gone, but Dean cannot recall the sound of door opening and closing after him, only something that sounded like the flapping of wings.

******

Dean avoids even coming near the restaurant the entire week after the humiliation of Castiel's rejection. Humiliation, if he wants to be honest about, he only has himself to blame. It's not like Castiel didn't make it clear that Dean he is interested in, doesn't answer to the last name Smith.

But it's not like he had been in love – or even some serious lust – with Castiel so the world doesn't end for him, it keeps turning as always.

But on the eight day after the fiasco with Castiel, Dean starts wishing he'd avoided elevators as well.

******

Taking a deep, calming breath, Dean throws a glare at his cell when it rings for what seems like the hundredth time in the last hour. Running his hand through his hair, he starts pacing back and forth, ignoring the insistent ring of his phone.

He knows who is calling him, which is why he avoids even looking at his cell. Why he's hiding in his apartment like a scared kid. Not that it's doing him any good, though. Sure, he can ignore Sam's calls and he can call in sick tomorrow, he can even try to pretend today never happened. Although, it will take him some serious willpower to push the fact that ghosts are real, and not of the Casper variety, to the back of his mind, but what he can't ignore, what scares him more than anything, is how natural it felt to follow the loose threads of bizarre suicides in the Sandover building, how easy it was to work alongside Sam, and most of all, how there's something inside him, seemingly inside his blood, that has come alive when the ghost of the old Sandover was put to rest.

Something that made him feel really and truly alive, making his life so far seem like it has past in slumber. Dull, grey and insignificant. But dull and grey is also safe, and really, when he thinks about it without the adrenaline pumping through his veins, they were lucky today – was it fool's or beginners luck, he's not sure – it could've ended messy and bloody for both of them, so why go stick their tongues at Lady Luck?

Besides, Sam is crazy, Dean is sure of it. Abandoning everything just to risk their lives on a daily basis, who does that? What's in it for them? Other than doing something really important and worthwhile for the world, that is. And that should be enough, or at least that is what a small – clearly insane and suicidal – voice inside his head claims.

When his cell rings again, making Dean flinch, he seriously considers picking it up and throwing it against the wall, but instead, he picks up his jacket and rushes out of his apartment, slamming the door behind.

******

So maybe, Sam isn't the only one crazy, Dean thinks absentmindedly, as he does what he's been doing since the ghost incident and Sam's insane proposal. He paces. But the craziness of his action has more to do with the fact that he's doing it in some cheap motel room and he has an audience.

One man audience, currently doing his best imitation of a statue, only his blue eyes alive and following Dean as he moves back and forth across the room.

When he left his apartment, Dean had no destination in mind, only the desire to get as far from his apartment and his phone, so how and why did he end up in the restaurant he's been avoiding for the past week, he has no idea. Nor does he know what prompted him to murmur 'come with me' to Castiel, who only looked at him for one long moment and followed him out of the restaurant without saying a word.

"You seem upset," Castiel says calmly and Dean halts his pacing, stopping an outburst of hysterical laughter before it can cross his lips.

"Your powers of deduction are seriously amazing," Dean snaps, a part of him aware that Castiel has nothing to do with the surreal twist in his life or the decision he has to make. But it's so easy to pour his anger and frustration on Castiel. Like he could take it all, simply staring at him with that impassive gaze, asking for more. "It must come in handy in your line of work."

Castiel ignores the irony, or doesn't recognize it, Dean's not sure. "Is there anything I can do?" Castiel asks, and Dean immediately opens his mouth, some scathing reply on the tip of his tongue, but he changes his mind. His life and sanity are already hanging by a thread over an abyss; why not go down in style?

Licking his lips, Dean grins, moving slowly toward Castiel whose only reaction is a slight tilt of his head as he watches Dean's approach.

"Yeah, there is something you can do," Dean whispers, now standing close to Castiel to be able to feel the warmth emanating from his body, the heat of his breath. "Make me forget today, will you?" Dean whispers, sneaking his hand behind Castiel's neck, surprised by the pleading sound of his voice. "_Can_ you?"

Castiel doesn't react in any way, and Dean still remembers the sting of Castiel's earlier rejection, but this, now, has nothing to do with sex or curiosity. He really needs to forget. To clear his mind of thoughts that are becoming more dangerous with every passing moment, and he's afraid he'll end up screwing his entire life if he doesn't do something drastic to get Sam Wesson and ghost-hunting out of his mind.

"Dean," Castiel says, more breathes out, and Dean's heart does a strange contracting motion at the sound of his name, addressed at him, not some faceless saint from Castiel's past. A shiver runs through his body when he feels hands settle on his shoulders and Dean thinks Castiel is going to accept his offer, but Castiel doesn't do anything past that innocent touch. He doesn't push him away, but neither is he pulling him near, all he does is stare at him with an expression that is nowhere near lust or desire. "And if I could, is that what you really want?"

"What I want?" Dean sneers, pushing himself away from Castiel, realizing how this was a mistake. He's not going to find answers to his problems here, and, really, what was he thinking? In the middle of the biggest crisis of his life, he gets the bright idea to fuck a complete stranger. Yeah, talk about trying to put out a fire with gasoline. "Why do you ask, anyway? It's not like I'm Dean you care about, right, Cas?"

"You are not," Castiel says, his face hardening fractionally. "But you are here, he isn't."

"So you'll help me since you can't help him?" Dean snorts. "What's this, some transference thing?"

"You are the one who asked me to come here," Castiel points out and it feels like a cold shower. He was indeed the one who dragged Castiel here and the guy really has been more than patient with him, suffering through Dean's clumsy seduction attempt and verbal abuse. Why, who knows? Although, it probably is that Dean guy.

"Yeah, I know," Dean sighs, flopping down on the bed, running his hand tiredly over his face. "Sorry about this, I… I've had a really bad day."

Nothing happens for the longest moment, Dean simply sits still, staring at his feet, too embarrassed, too wary to look up when he hears a soft sigh followed by the rustling of clothes, and then Castiel is sitting next to him.

"You could speak of what is troubling you," he says, and the soft tone of his voice drags Dean's eyes from his feet toward Castiel's face. "I promise to keep your words to myself."

It's an honest offer, Dean realizes as he studies Castiel's face intently, not empty words nor curiosity driven proposition. An offer that is solely up to Dean to accept or decline.

"I like my life," Dean finds himself saying, words spilling from his mouth without his conscious decision. "I've worked hard to get to where I am now, and sure, I could live without this recession crap, but I'm doing fine despite it," pausing, Dean takes a deep breath, feeling relieved that those words are out there, in the air between him and Castiel, and no longer inside his head, battling with the possibility of that other life. "It's too early to tell, but I think Mr. Adler… that's my boss," Dean adds when a small frown crosses Castiel's face, "is satisfied with my work so far. In a year or two, I could even get a shot at a promotion."

"If you have all you need, all you want, why are you upset?" Castiel asks, his tone serious, but there is something in his eyes now, just beneath the calm surface, a sort of concern that has no place in a stranger's eyes.

Dean bites on his lower lip, stopping himself from spilling the truth about yesterday, but just barely. Castiel might have displayed stoic acceptance of Dean's crazy behavior so far, but Dean seriously doubts that entire 'ghosts are real' deal would go over so well.

"There's this guy," Dean starts, frowning, trying his best to tell the truth, but leave out the weird parts. "We've just met, but we've worked on a deal together and it was a major success." His frown turns into a grimace when he remembers how well he and Sam were collaborating, especially considering Sam's words about that guy from his dreams. The one that looked like him. "But now he wants us to work together permanently, to start our own business and I'm…"

"Afraid," Castiel says instead of him, looking at him with sympathy. Or is it pity?

"Yeah, I am," Dean says, closing his eyes for a moment. "If I accept, it'll mean goodbye to all I've worked for so far."

"What do you want, Dean?"

"Not to have to choose, that's what I want," Dean says, his words coming out bitter and desperate.

Castiel smiles, but it's a sad smile. "Free will is a precious and terrible thing at the same time."

Dean snorts. "Now you sound like those TV preachers," he says, making the corners on Castiel's face twitch upwards.

"But am I wrong?"

"No," Dean agrees reluctantly.

"Then do what you believe is right."

"It's easy for you to say that. It's not like you have to turn your back on everything you know and love."

A pained grimace flashes across Castiel's face but it's gone almost immediately. Although, Dean could swear there is something both resigned and determined in his eyes. "You have… there is an expression, never say never," Castiel says evenly. "Tomorrow could surprise us both."

Dean blinks, Castiel's words not making much sense, but then he remembers that conversation they had, when Castiel admitted starting to dislike his job for his father.

"I don't want to do this, Cas," Dean says, the nickname slipping past his lips naturally. Castiel doesn't look like he minds it this time, though. "I don't think I can, it's…" Dean pauses, searching for the right word. Scary? Insane? Suicidal? "It's too big."

Castiel's eyes widen and there's something in them now – recognition almost, maybe even yearning – but before Dean could recognize it fully, Castiel blinks and that calm, impassive look Dean's gotten used to by now is back.

"The path of a righteous man usually implies trials and suffering."

"Now you're really getting way too biblical for me," Dean says, but somehow, no matter how little religion of any kind means to him, Castiel's words have had a calming effect on him. "But, like you said, I have a choice; I don't have to accept Sa… that guy's offer."

"Will that make you happy?" Castiel asks, his eyes suddenly burning with intensity. "Is that what you feel is right?"

"I don't know, okay?" Dean snaps, getting up off the bed and moving away from Castiel. He's not sure why, but suddenly he's feeling guilty and self-conscious, and he has a strange feeling that Castiel can somehow read his mind. "But why should I think about what is right or wrong? Why not what is easier? Or safe? Or, hell, even better paid?"

Castiel moves off the bed as well, but he doesn't try to come closer to where Dean is standing, which is good, since Dean is sure he'll do something embarrassing, like bolt out of the door if Castiel takes a step closer.

"Because you are a good man. A righteous one and in the end you will choose the path that you feel is right. And that is the only path that matters, all others are…"

"Smoke and mirrors," Dean whispers, closing his eyes, Castiel's words only confirming what he's know ever since he looked at Sam when the Sandover's ghost disappeared for good. That that is what he should be doing. Hunting creatures, saving people's lives. But that doesn't mean he's ready to accept it.

Dean flinches when he feels a soft brush of fingers against his face, and even though his first instinct is to run, he forces himself to stay still, his eyes snapping open only to see Castiel pulling his hand away from his face. "I have faith that you'll make the right choice, Dean," Castiel says softly, a small, soft smile playing on his lips, and to Dean his words sound like he's saying goodbye.

He's right. Castiel straightens his shoulders, the smile slipping from his face, and without saying another word, he turns to leave.

"I won't see you again, right?" Dean asks, his question stopping Castiel by the already opened door. He asks, although he's pretty sure he already knows the answer.

"No, you won't," Castiel says firmly after a moment of consideration, and then he's gone, the door closing softly behind him, and Dean is left alone in a motel room, a smile tugging at his lips when he realizes that he's not afraid of tomorrow anymore.


End file.
